The Jefferson Key

SOMETHING HAD SLAMMED INTO THE GIBBET, STARTLING CASSIOPEIA. A

body. Male. Together they hit the water.

Then she saw the face and relief poured through her.

Cotton.

MALONE HELD TIGHT. NO WAY HE WAS LETTING GO. THEY teetered on the surface, tossing in the surf, as the line’s slack played out behind the yacht.

“Glad you finally made it,” she said.

His gaze found the latch mechanism.

The gibbet was starting to sink.

He reached out but the line went taut.

And they were dragged through the water.

HALE WAS STUNNED. THE INTRUDER HAD SHOT HIM, BUT THANKFULLY in the chest. The body armor he’d donned earlier before leading the defense of the prison had saved him, though his ribs throbbed. He’d dropped to the deck, but not before seeing the man leap from the railing toward the gibbet.

He brought himself to his knees and sucked a few deep breaths.

He turned for his men, who were nowhere to be seen.

Instead Stephanie Nelle stood with a gun aimed straight at him.

“I told you Cotton Malone was trouble,” she said.

MALONE KEPT A DEATH GRIP ON THE GIBBET, HIS RIGHT hand finding one of the rounded vertical supports to which the flat iron was welded. A shower of color burst before his eyes. They were skimming in and out of the water about a hundred feet behind Adventure, in the center portion of the sloop’s long wake.

He gulped another breath and yelled to Cassiopeia, “Breathe.”

“Like I’m not trying.”

He had more room to maneuver than she did. The sloop’s speed allowed them to hydroplane for a few precious seconds. He realized that once the speed was reduced they would sink and be dragged underwater.

His heart rocketed in his chest.

He had to find the latch.

CASSIOPEIA WAS SUCKING IN AS MUCH WATER AS AIR, TRYING to spit it out and keep her lungs dry. She was rotating her upper body inside the gibbet as they rocketed in and out of the surf. A sharp pain pierced her cramped calves and she told herself to relax. She longed for speed, since slowing down meant sinking. Hale was toying with them. Enjoying their predicament.

“I’m… going to… get you… out,” Cotton told her as they surfaced one more time, his voice coming in staccato gasps.

“My hands,” she managed to say.

She couldn’t swim long if she were bound.